The Murder

A murder of crows
Weaved in between the birch,
Coming to claim the slaughter
That was not their own.
Scavenging,
Searching,
In a thirst that could not be quenched
By just flesh
And blood alone.
A small child lay there,
Proven mortal.
A chill fell as they
Descended upon him,
Hauntingly it hung
In the sickly sweet and thick air.
His small form
Although beaten,
Broken,
and torn,
Remained still and peaceful
As the flock ravaged
His once soft and milky skin,
Taking even the oil coloured flesh,
Shreds of Pink,yellow,blue,black, and green.
His eyes remained opened,
Although unseeing.
His mouth remained cocked,
Although it could not speak.
His lungs now vacant
Could not usher an exuant whisper
To name the force
responsible for his state.
Silence.
Silence merely posing a question
In which the dialect of tree's could only answer:
"How does one destroy a soul?"
A willow weeps in its reply,
As the wind carasses its tendrils
And lark sings from its canopy.
With this the crowd took flight,
Leaving nothing but their fragments of downy ink
And an empty corpse,
Only taking with them their unsated hunger
In their constant flight
For their next meal.